


Rodney McKay's Diary

by rageprufrock



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dear Dr. Bronson, due to your court-mandated supervisory position over me and your subsequent ridiculous assignment to keep a journal in order to monitor my "progress" you are undoubtedly reading this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rodney McKay's Diary

**Author's Note:**

> Given that this was never an official project or story, really, this is just the collection of all entries I ever wrote in Rodney's Magical Diary of All-Caps fury.

1/3/2002

Dear Dr. Bronson, due to your court-mandated supervisory position over me and your subsequent ridiculous assignment to keep a journal in order to monitor my "progress" you are undoubtedly reading this. (Also, no, I will not write in pen. If you care about my mental health enough, you will soldier through the pencil smudges.)

Dear Diary: Today, I didn't get sent to anger management classes for throwing a Mac G5 box at anybody and I count that as real personal growth. Kiss Kiss, McKay.

1/5/2002

Today was one of those situations where being allowed to beat the crap out of my inferiors would have really benefited my "fragile grasp on reality." Six lab fires, three spilled sodas, and one totally unnecessary fit of sobbing perpetrated by a 5'0'' Japanese woman whose name I can't for the life of me pronounce after somebody allegedly saw a cockroach "The size of a small mountain, Rodney!" and created havoc.

God, I can't believe the Air Force can't do better than these idiots.

And no, I still can't talk about what I do and no, that's not me avoiding addressing my deeply-seeded emotional problems.

I'm putting them all on late shift.

58 minutes later:

Subordinates have accidentally created strongest known epoxy compound and attached me to my work stool. The only thing that comforts me now is that (a) in theory, I could cut my pants off and go home with only my dignity in tatters and (b) Ming's forehead is attached to the superprocessor in the corner.

1/6/2002

Okay, you would think that they wouldn't have any way to pin this bullshit on me since it was them who made the epoxy but no, Ming's shrieking about being scalped and wanting to sue me for emotional damages and also I think I'm having a really uncomfortable reaction to the epoxy in a very compromising spot.

2/1/2002

REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED GUIDE TO OFFICE MANAGEMENT AND COMMUNICATION, 3rd Edition, compiled by the OMB, pg 123 --

"In your continuing efforts to encourage the absolute best results from your employees, it is important to maintain a good relationship: don't be afraid to be friendly with your subordinates but remember your job is not to be their friend. The workplace social context is a delicate balance and tipping it too far in one direction or another could lead to uncomfortable situations and difficulty achieving professional goals."

DEAR MORON: WHOEVER TAPED THIS TO MY OFFICE DOOR CLEARLY DOESN'T UNDERSTAND THAT THE OFFICE DYNAMIC IN ANY LAB THAT I RUN IS YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DO WHAT I SAY AND I DON'T KICK YOUR ASS TO THE SANDY CURB.

3/4/2002

They're sending me to Colorado on consult. Thank Jesus. If Nevada got any hotter I'd have gotten heatstroke going between the parking lot at the office and the world would never recover from the catastrophic loss of potential once my limitless capacity for brilliance was squandered in such a foolish way.

Also: Dear Dr. Bronson, I, too, am shattered at the thought that this is the last diary entry where we will be able to share a much deeper understanding of our inner souls, but I assure you that I will soldier through the pain and grow only stronger for this inconceivably huge loss. You have been a comfort of unparalleled depth to my angst-ridden soul and ever since we've been corresponding via these court-ordered and violating exchanges, I've really felt very close to you and my inner child. Excuse me, I have to go smear feces all over my face to express my suffering loss.

3/5/2002

You know, it's a real tragedy that the Air Force allows a woman like Sam Carter wander around in a flight suit all the time -- it's a human tragedy. She's got this amazing smart but still dumb blond thing going on that charges my particle cloud; the hair makes me worry a bit that she might be reading poetry from the island of Lesbos in her spare time and changing her own oil but it's not like sexual orientation is insurmountable.

Also, if the SGC doesn't want to waste its valuable and multi-million dollar investment in me they desperately need to start monitoring that the utter filth that's served in their mess hall isn't laced with poison. My lawyer already has a poison pill wrongful death suit written and ready to file the moment my potential autopsy comes through. I should tell Colonel O'Neill about that.

3/6/2002

Whatever. She'll come around.

The important thing is: I was right.

6/2/2002

Carter looks better than ever. Asked if she wanted to christen a lab table and she threw a book at me. How come nobody makes Sam go to anger management class? She's clearly just afraid of the depth of passion she feels for me.

8/10/2002

AM IN SIBERIA. I HADN'T THOUGHT I NEEDED TO PLAN FOR IF MY TESTICLES FROZE OFF IN THE PERMAFROST AND I HAD TO SUE THE GOVERNMENT FOR DENYING ME THE RIGHT TO PERPETUATE MY GENIUS THROUGH YOUNG.

I've never been this cold in my life nor this inebriated. There is a liquor cabinet in the third floor lab next to the flamethrowers and I can't figure out if this is just another sign of unbelievable stupidity or a subconscious need to escape Siberia so desperately it manifests in unintentional attempts to facilitate suicide. Considering taking a scientific poll on number of people willing to throw themselves in for a military coup to break into the officers' quarters and steal their space  
heaters and porn.

8/11/2002

THERE IS NO PORN IN THE OFFICERS' QUARTERS WTF.

8/12/2002

The only thing keeping me from chipping my own grave in the permafrost is telling newly-stationed Marines that if they go outside and pee, their urine will freeze in a perfect arch.

8/21/2002

Base voodoo practitioners traced multiple sensitive cases of frostbite back to me and now I'm not allowed to socialize with the military contingent which I don't even care about because I have enough trouble with mutinous underlings in lab 6a, which is occupied with a tiny, wild-hair Czech man who hums Rogers and Hammerstein musicals under his breath all day.

If they didn't keep dangling the promise of the Stargate in my face I'd quit six minutes ago and go back to sunny, funny SoCal, where the nerds were plentiful and clothing on beautiful, bronzed women was short and I could eat at In-and-Out every single day without having to fight anybody to get some God damn ketchup.

1/1/2003

Happy fucking Siberian New Year. I hope Sam gets eaten by a polar bear.

3/15/2003

I didn't really mean it about the polar bear. I was just angry. Sometimes, love hurts.

I'm pretty sure I'm an alcoholic now, but that's okay because it's apparently what you have to do in order to fit in with anybody on this base.

Nobody else has been able to find the grunts' porn yet either and now there's a $500 pot on it.

5/23/2003

Czech is in the infirmary after trying to break into Lieutenant Miller's room last night under the auspices of his theory that (a) all the soldiers here are actually robots who don't need the sweet warmth of human affection and get off on having their bolts tightened and (b) that there's some sort of magical hatch in the floorboards of his room since he'd already tossed all of the other military dorms.

Problem: Miller was an engineering major at MIT and did some really impressively torturous stuff with trickwires and electrocutions and buckets of icy water which turn immediately into blocks of sheer ice given the right weather conditions and now the Czech is claiming frostbite, flu, and emotional distress. Miller looks sorry not at all.

Still no porn. I'm not even interested in seeing the skin anymore, it's become a purely academic curiosity in where the fuck you would hide magazines and VHS in a place this small and so filled with male desperation.

6/1/2003

Accidentally slept with nervous sergeant. He's been crying in my bathroom for an hour, composing a suicide letter and an apology note to his seventeen billion generations of proud marines. This is why I don't hit shit in uniform more often.

I really fucking need to pee.

6/2/2003

Traded my silence on inappropriate sexual liaison with the still-suicidal Sgt. Heller for intimate knowledge of where the jarheads are keeping the smut and am kind of freaked out that (a) the kitchen staff never noticed all the guys in uniform creeping into and out of the back refrigeration unit and (b) that marines can jerk off in a sub-zero.

"It doesn't bother you?" I asked, flipping through a well-worn copy of JUGGZ!!, with all the pages with articles dogeared.

"It's wrong," Heller said hoarsely. "I'm sorry I made you a fag, too."

Rolling my eyes this much has to be bad for my optic nerve. "I'm sure I'll get over it or something. I meant the cold: doesn't the cold bother you? How do you guys -- you know?"

He stared at me like I was trying to touch his dick again -- which, hello, no, never again, if I ever take a test drive with the Army of One again I'm picking an obviously slutty one.

12/31/2003

Am incredibly intoxicated. Czech guy is kind of cute.

1/1/2004

OH GOD HE IS NOT KIND OF CUTE. OH MY GOD.

"I cannot believe we sleep together," he mumbles, looking for his pants. There's only one pair on the floor and I will fight him for them.

"Maybe we just fell asleep hugging," I suggest feebly.

"Yes," he sneers. "Naked." He glares. "Sergeant Heller warns me about evil gay McKay."

I'm going to fucking kill that kid.

1/3/2004

Sent Heller following note:

Look, I don't know how it happened. Maybe it has something to do with some of the more classified things in the lab -- I don't know. Either way, I think we really need to talk. I think you're going to be a father. I know it will be hard but I think we could really make it work.

McKay.

PS, Do you know how to make an igloo?

Heard shrieking all the way from the lab and base counselor has been glaring at me all week.

Once again, I win.

2/3/2004

I'm being sent to Antarctica. Apparently O'Neill found something there. I fucking hate this job.

Dear Colonel O'Neill: Please find something in a tropical hotspot of loose women and men kthx.

4/5/2004

Massive delays as Antarctic facility keeps collapsing on itself and people keep getting hypothermia and having life-affirming sex while trapped under the snow and ice, thinning the ranks by making able-bodied men ill and gay.

I keep explaining that if they just put in a wireless connection, I could go back to Pasadena and do all this shit online. DHL and Earthlink is there for a fucking reason.

7/1/2004

Am writing in a desperate attempt to keep from vomiting at the ridiculous antics of the palsied moron flying this rickety piece of crap helicopter and I am not optimistic I will succeed.

"You okay?" he asks, glancing back over at where I'm huddled by a poorly-insulated wall and reciting prayers that I can't really remember but hope are making it through God's spam filter anyway because Jesus Christ, I've done too much and could do too much for humanity to die in such a totally undignified way as death by retarded flyboy.

"OH MY GOD KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD," I say reasonably.

I can tell he's blinking at me from behind those stupid sunglasses.

"There's not really…a road," he says evenly and then he takes his hands off of the steering wheel and says, "Look, Ma, no hands!"

"OH MY GOD," I say, again, perfectly calm. "WE'RE GOING TO DIE AND IT'S GOING TO BE YOUR FAULT, MAJOR DUMBASS -- "

"It's Sheppard," he says brightly. "Major John Sheppard." He puts his hands back on the steering but I'm already hyperventilating and drafting up my letter of official complaint -- although if he's already been shafted to fucking Antarctica there's really not much worse he can do. Maybe they'll send him to Siberia. I'll tuck a goodbye note in his bags talking about how fun it is to write your name in the snow there.

"I'm too young and important to science to die," I tell him solemnly, reaching over to grip his shoulder and angle myself so that if we do go into a death spiral I can vomit on him. "Do you understand?"

He pries my hand off with one of his and pats me where he puts it on my knee and says, "I always get the hyper ones." And then when we almost hit a mountain he says, "Hah, awesome."

slekrjfdf----------------------

7/2/2004

Apparently I fainted in the helicopter yesterday which made Major Sucks Goat Dick sorry enough about fucking with me that he brought me an orange because regret always makes you want to kill people in the most horrible and vile of ways.

"You're allergic to citrus?" he asked, like it was the strangest thing he'd ever heard.

"Oh," I said from the hospital bed. "Is that the strangest thing you've ever heard or something."

"Actually, yes," he said diplomatically, and pocketed the orange again. I tried not to look at the bulge it made in his crotch but it was hard. (Heh.) "What aren't you allergic to?"

7/5/2004

!!!!!

SHEPPARD HAS BROUGHT ME A PEACE OFFERING OF AN ENTIRE BOTTLE OF KETCHUP. THIS MIGHT BE LOVE.

8/1/2004

Had a moment of weakness when officers' club in Antarctica did reveal porn -- mountains of it, enormous stacks of it, huge, huge piles of it -- and John didn't know who Lance Bass was ("Does he have a show on the Outdoor Living Network?" he asked -- GOD) and consoled myself with Sheppard's insufferable heterosexuality by hitting on one of the ugly girls in the SL4 lab.

Later:

OH MY GOD. IT WASN'T A GIRL. DEREK KAVANAGH. BRB, I HAVE TO GO CURL INTO A BALL IN THE SHOWER AND ROCK MYSELF BACK AND FORTH IN AGONY.

8/2/2004

Managed to waylay Kavanagh before he filed the sexual harassment claim and explain that from the back with his long hair and sloping shoulders he really does look very feminine and attractive in a totally masculine and way buff way, of course. He didn't really buy it. Then I tried to explain that I didn't use that "moonpants" line for just anybody but he didn't seem to buy that either.

"Are those moonpants because your ass is out of this world," Kavanagh recited acidly, holding up the sexual harassment claim form he was holding. "That's written right on the form."

"Look, I didn't know you were a guy!" I argued. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

Kavanagh raised his incredibly ugly eyebrows. "Well, there's this paper."

9/1/2004

I AM IN THE CENTER MOUTH OF BEELZEBUB, SHARING REAL ESTATE WITH JUDAS. HAD NOT PREVIOUSLY KNOWN THE SEVENTH CIRCLE OF HELL WAS SO COLD AND UNFORGIVING AS PEER REVIEWING KAVANAGH'S "PAPER." CLEARLY WRITTEN BY SMALL CHILD WITH LEARNING DISORDER AND TWO STUMPS INSTEAD OF HANDS. GOD WILL THIS HELL EVER CEASE TO BE FRESH?

 

9/30/2004

Apparently the answer is "no."

This morning, it was all anybody could talk about that Sheppard had two bruised ribs from saving a pair of asshat geologists who shouldn't have interpreted my orders to "do something about it, God damn it" like that anyway.

Naturally, everybody blamed me and not the two morons who were sitting at Sheppard's bedside, cooing like mentally challenged pigeons about how they felt so terrible for getting him hurt and was there anything they could do? Like crawl under his hospital sheet and suck your cock? No, really, it'd be an honor, Major -- get in line, bitch!

September is cursed:  
(1) prostituted myself and put my name on Kavanagh's paper, almost cried  
(2) Major John Sheppard: still straight, still thinks Lance Bass hosts a fishing show  
(3) Czech transferred to Antarctica, bruised myself three times trying not to make eye contact

I'm seriously considering peddling my ass for a Snickers at this point; it might be the only thing that gets me through October.

10/13/2004

Czech hosting X-Files marathon; I told him it was puerile and lame and he said I was just pissed because I wasn't invited and Major Sheppard was a guest of honor because he knew the name of every episode for all nine seasons.

…Fuck.

10/14/2004

HAH. X-files thing was a scurrilous lie -- "I never watched it," John said, flexing attractively, "aliens -- not really my thing." -- unfortunately, Sheppard has seen every episode of Batman. This makes him at least three times more devastatingly attractive.

"You liked Batman?" I asked.

"I watched it religiously as a kid," he told me seriously. "What about you?"

I made a scoffing noise and he laughed (which was awesome -- oh my God, I'm turning into a 14 year-old girl) and asked, "Okay, what about Doctor Who? Man, I used to tape them when I was a kid and stay up all night watching them."

I was forced to make up some feeble lie about there being a lab emergency -- I might have said something about ebola, Sheppard looked really confused -- so I could hide in my quarters and tell myself it was wrong to perve out on the mental image of a 12 year-old Sheppard all starry-eyed watching science fiction. God, I hate this place: it's turning me into a pedophile.

10/15/2004

Sheppard was in a totally rotten mood this morning, muttering about bureaucratic bullshit and not being a taxi service -- decided not to mention that as far as anybody knew, that was technically his job title because one day he might realize Lance Bass: member of N'Sync, and I don't want to prematurely destroy my chances, here -- and ferrying around civilians at their leisure. Now I can't stop thinking about how he was probably pissed about having to pick me up and if he was sleeping in my bed, he totally wouldn't be tonight -- jackass.

Later:

GOD I TAKE IT BACK. IT'S DANIEL "OOPS, I DIED AGAIN" JACKSON. SKIP THE PICK-UP, SHEPPARD, SKIP THE PICK-UP.

Later:

Dramatic reinterpretation of this afternoon:

Daniel Jackson: Hello, mind if I touch your shit?  
Me: Yes, in fact I do mind. Now if you'll just excuse me --  
Daniel Jackson: What's this? An amazingly delicate piece of machinery that has to be hand-calibrated with equal parts art and skill upon which I can lean my crappy acid-free queerbag field notebook and write poetry about how General O'Neill doesn't love me anymore?  
Me: SOMEBODY GET THIS MAN OUT OF MY LAB.

So then they sent me out to sit in the mess to work through my "obvious build up of stress" and the only other person there was Sheppard -- who was still pissy -- so we sat around and were pissy together until I finally exploded and yelled:

"LANCE BASS IS NOT ON OLN TEACHING FAT PEOPLE HOW TO FISH!"

And stomped out.

Now that I've thoroughly disgraced myself, I figure I can go fling myself off of an icy cliff to my well-deserved death or something.

Yet later:

GOD. JUST GOT EMAIL FROM SHEPPARD:

From: john.sheppard  
To: rodney.mckay  
Subject: Lance Bass

Geez, McKay. You could have just told me to Google him.

Did you know everybody thinks he's gay?

Sheppard.

SOMEBODY PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY.

11/1/2004

Carson Beckett -- Yoda preserve us -- carries the strongest ATA gene of everybody on the base and of course he would also be the most cowardly of the cowardly lions and threatened before he'll sit in the chair. It's a chair -- it's not going to bite him in the ass. It's not even going to become a new limb a la Area 51 and Stupid Stupid Employees.

7 days since I last saw John. He was eating a ham sandwich.

11/4/2004

Beckett still a coward, chair still hates me. Elizabeth offered to teach me some yoga to remove the stress in my shoulders and I almost managed not to laugh in her face. Daniel sulking around the meeting room since he broke two more pieces of delicate machinery and word got out General O'Neill is flying in to supervise progress. Am seriously considering calling up the dark spirits and offering them the Czech's wiry little soul in return for some functionality in the fucking chair.

Haven't seen John in 2 days. He was sneezing. Maybe I should offer to go nurse him.

Later:

Okay, eventful day:

First, Carson finally got the chair to work! Yay!

Then, Carson nearly shot down a helicopter containing General O'Neill and more importantly John Sheppard who clearly now knows that (a) Lance Bass, not a fishing expert and (b) could be gay and is also obviously slutty. Not yay.

THEN John followed General O'Neill down into the super classified totally not supposed to exist and you are definitely not supposed to be here labs and poked a chair which just rolled over and moaned for him -- which you know, I can't blame the fucking chair -- before he made the most beautiful image of the universe float above us all with his a thought.

After extensive blood-sucking testing Carson says John has the strongest manifestation of the Ancient gene he's ever seen and is nearly fawning over the guy because it means he won't have to sit in the chair anymore. Right, because if I almost shot down a General and made an Air Force major crash land in a snow heap, that's what I'd have been worrying about.

11/5/2004

Pining after John &gt; Seeing him being hot all the time.

Yeah, it surprised me, too.

12 minutes since I last saw John. He was correcting a math error on a chalkboard. I had to go lock myself into a utility closet until I could be seen in public again.

Oh, yeah, and we're going to the Lost City of Atlantis. I bet we all drown and die so here is my contingency plan: if we get to the city and everything is awesome (hah!) I celebrate by taking a chance and making out with Sheppard because the worst he can do is punch me and it's hard to get called to a court martial from another galaxy. When we get there and it's all drowning and dying, I console myself by making out with Sheppard because if I'm going to die I'm going to go with his tongue down my throat.

Also, Czech made Sheppard a Backstreet Boys CD today. I hate that man.

11/30/2004

Was so busy almost drowning and dying I never even got around to making out with Sheppard. I suck at being evil gay McKay and I keep thinking I hear John humming Backstreet Boys lyrics under his breath which is disturbing on two levels: (1) that I would recognize them and (2) that he actually listened to the CD. Were any of the Backstreet Boys gay? They sound gay. I don't know. God damn it; I don't have Google in the fucking Pegasus Galaxy.

Also, Sheppard already pulled a Kirk and found a hot alien girlfriend. Also she can kick his ass and uses the phrase "my people" unironically as she smiles beatifically over her plunging neckline. I'm consoling myself by hacking into the jarheads' computers on the intranet and copying their porn. Disturbingly high correlation between Atlantis military contingent and fascination with leather sluts. Hm.

Later:

Why doesn't John have porn on his computer?

Whatever, I bet it'd be all straight anyway.

Teyla's a stupid name anyway.

Even later:

No seriously. He has to have porn. Maybe it's on CDs?

12/1/2004

John shot me in the leg and pushed me off a balcony today but it was okay because I had a personal shield on and there was some stuff about an energy monster but mostly it was awesome.

…God why don't I just give up and write this shit on fucking Lisa Frank stationary?

12/15/2004

So today I watched a person die for the first time and I couldn't even vomit.

Sheppard got a big ugly alien bug attached to his throat which would have been funny except it was bigger than my face and killing him and had him in excruciating pain and there was nothing anybody could do other than watch him die on the floor of a fucking puddlejumper.

Carson says he'll be fine except for a monster hickey for a while and we all shared kind of an emotional Go Team Us! Moment in the infirmary and I managed not to freak out until after I was already back in my room and now I'm sitting in my Ancient, sort-of-bathtub writing this and forcing myself to take long, deep breaths.

If Sheppard dies, who's going to wake up the city in the mornings?

12/17/2004

Sheppard found me in the labs and told me he'd be fine and I should chill out. I don't believe him as far as I could throw him and just to spite him, I've decided to stop having a crush on him because he's clearly a liability and has the self-preservation instincts of a gnat.

Apparently Czech's name is Zelenka.

"Is good to see Major Sheppard well again," he said.

"Sure," I sneered.

"Would be sad if I could not give him new Backstreet Boys album," he said innocently.

12/25/2004

Elizabeth's making us celebrate nondenominational holidays. She's so stubbornly cheerful she managed to convince John and me and Lieutenant Ford to go to the mainland to maim some plant life -- which I'll probably be allergic to -- to get a nondenominational tree of winter solstice joy. I bet Elizabeth burned bras and felt really strongly about eating vegan in college.

Later:

Interesting -- only John's allergic to the tree. He's miserable, curled up and sneezing. Maybe I should offer to comfort him. With my body. Of -- uh -- knowledge about coping with allergies.

12/26/2004

Okay -- NEVERMIND, CLEARLY NOT ALLERGIES BUT THE FLU.

"Sowee, Rodbee," John said.

"Don tawk to be," I snapped.

We'd been banished to the 4th floor spire lounge and Zelenka was laying in the far corner on a divan moaning wretchedly. John was in the ugliest pair of sweats I've ever seen and I was wrapped up in my thermal sleeping bag.

He whined. "Bud I'b weally sowee, Rodbee."

God damn it. It should be illegal for him to be red-nosed and drippy and still cute.

"Whadever," I said, looking away.

Then he grinned and put his hand on my arm and said, "Aw, Rodbee."

HE TOUCHED ME.

….GOD THAT'S WHAT STARTED ALL THIS SUFFERING TO BEGIN WITH.

1/1/2005

Rang in New Year with a passed-out Air Force major snoring away next to me in the sick lounge and Elizabeth reading out loud from an August, 2003 edition of BUST magazine in between her hacking coughs. Intergalactic explorers: not glamorous. I'm starting to suspect that the SG-1 reports were heavily doctored and that nobody really meets hot aliens who want you for sex rituals, either. I always knew the total lack of space crabs was a little suspicious.

1/4/2005

Apparently, killing trees for fun and profit in the Pegasus galaxy is a lot harder than it is in the Milky Way because the nondenominational winter solstice bush just grew some feet-like things and walked over to a balcony, hopped off, and started swimming back to the mainland. The biologists and the botanists then got into a fistfight over who got to study the little root clippings and piney bits it left first.

John's been monitoring its slow progress worriedly and is pissy because Elizabeth won't let him get a jumper and fly it back over.

"Well, we cut it from its home! The least we can do is return him!" John protested.

"From my viewpoint, John, it's swimming just fine," Elizabeth said firmly. Which is true. That little bush is making good progress.

John looked worried. "But it's a long way. What if it gets tired?"

Dear God Who I'm Pretty Sure Doesn't Exist: Please, please please never let us find some sort of cute animal in the Pegasus galaxy because then John would make us keep it and love and it make it the Atlantis mascot and it would invariably hate me and want to kill me in my sleep. Love, Rodney McKay, Ph.D

One of the meteorologists wasting space in the far east sea labs is making noises about some sort of storm front on the verge. Whatever, last week they were saying they bet Atlantis could fly.

1/11/2005

If I never see rain again for the rest of my life, I would be okay with that.

Atlantis' storm came and so did the Genii, still bearing a grudge and this time with a strike team intent on stealing C4 -- and then they changed tactics and decided to take the city.

I still feel like I'm drowning in that rain, and I've never been so cold in my life, huddled on that pier with Elizabeth listening to the barest bones of John's voice over Kolya's radio and hating that motherfucker so much I could choke. All I could think is that Atlantis would be torn to pieces and I would die and Elizabeth would die and John would die but that at least he wouldn't have Atlantis: he didn't deserve her, and he wouldn't understand her.

The cut on my arm is getting better -- there're three stitches, and Carson knit them up with ugly black thread and I didn't complain even once because I was busy shaking still -- despite John demanding that he check it every few hours. He's been hovering around us for hours, ever since he supervised the sea-burial of the two dead marines. He's -- inappropriately -- telling Elizabeth and I stories about his childhood in hurricane states, about rain and black-slick roads, about the long arms of storms over the sky, melting it gray and purple and green like a bruise. He talked about the tree branch that flew through their living room window and about climbing through all the broken trees behind Pope Air Force base like it was a jungle, with all the rain smell there.

There aren't any trees here, just the smell of water on metal and my the cold, metallic smell of water and blood on my hands, and even though John Sheppard is the most annoying human being in the world -- I'm glad he's sitting in a chair between my bed and Elizabeth's.

The other marines have been whispering and it's with awe I haven't heard in their voices before, like Sheppard finally won their respect by killing 55 people with a Stargate and taking back a city with ruthless efficiency. But in the infirmary, there's just John who likes Back to the Future and who's on page 30 of War and Peace.

1/20/2005

This galaxy is trying to kill us. Nanovirus.

Sheppard dropped by the infirmary after everything in the Labs of Death had been squared away and told me quietly that they were going to do a burial at sea for the scientists.

"Okay," I said, and stared at the ceiling. I usually don't make a habit of being flat on my back in bed while anybody tries to have a conversation with me but I don't really have a choice and I don't think I could sit up even if I wanted to.

"I'm glad you're okay, Rodney," he said and then he squeezed my wrist.

2/1/2005

This has been -- hands down -- the worst week in recorded history. Monday through Wednesday was spent trying to quietly clean up a small lab disaster that started with Zelenka's incredibly illegal and not even very effective still that had started producing a substance so vile it ate through the floor and dripped into one of the sewage systems.

Then Elizabeth decided not to buy any of our brilliant contingency lies and Zelenka and I spent most of late Tuesday into early Wednesday literally cleaning shit. If I wasn't so predisposed to hypoglycemia I would have abstained from food for the whole time and instead I've decided to take another tack and make Radek watch me eat beef stew because his look of utter and total revulsion makes it more than worth the suffering I'm going through on the eating end.

Oh, but no, that was only the beginning of things.

So on Thursday, after I'd taken about a billion showers and doused myself with enough Athosian perfume -- "That's only used by young girls when they're trying to court, Rodney," Teyla said, like I fucking cared -- to fell a small wildebeest, we ended up going to the planet of the serenely pre-technological or brilliantly post-technological where I was subjected to the unending wrongs of having to deal with insane religious figureheads in stereotypically stupid garb.

Then they brought out their priestess.

Okay, when I was younger and watched grainy episodes of Star Trek, I really connected with Kirk on his many love affairs. It was hard out there for a space captain and he had to seek comfort where safe harbor was offered but reality is another story entirely which is why I'm crouched outside Space Hooker's guest quarters on vigilant watch because Sheppard is in there and she's probably torturing him with her voodoo.

10 minutes later:

Or her vagina.

5 minutes later:

But probably her voodoo.

10 minutes later:

Who the fuck am I kidding? He was drooling on her the moment she showed up in her sexy-ass, inappropriate for a woman of "god" outfit.

I can practically hear her sitting on his stupid, weirdly attractive face right now.

…I hope her vagina sprouts tentacles and chokes him, that fucker.

40 minutes later:

GOD HOW LONG CAN THIS POSSIBLY TAKE?

Jesus, now I'm thinking about her stroking his chest hair and purring over his inexhaustible cock. I mean, what? What's the average time to reach orgasm? For men it'd -- but for a woman God knows how -- Jesus fucking Christ there are too God damn many variables here and they're all over the image of Sheppard fucking somebody blind. For hours. With his inexhaustible cock.

SERIOUSLY WHAT THE FUCK? THAT TWITCHY BITCH IN SIBERIA -- SUICIDE NOTE AND ALL -- TOOK 15 MINUTES, TOPS.

1 hour later:

Maybe they're talking.

…God WHAT IF THEY'RE TALKING?

15 minutes later:

Okay, if they're talking, he might be giving away state secrets about the Atlantis mission -- not like he hasn't already peddled his ASS -- and that might give me enough administrative leeway to burst in there and keep him from making some sort of hideous first contact error of the worst scope and magnitude. Maybe I should ask Elizabeth.

5 minutes later:

"You're waiting outside Chaya's room?"

"I'm just supervising," I explained reasonably. "He's in Chaya's quarters and God knows -- "

"Dr. McKay, stop that immediately!"

Elizabeth's such a bitch.

Maybe Teyla will understand.

5 minutes later:

"Dr. McKay, I feel it is very mean-spirited of you not to celebrate John's happiness. I met him in the hall before his agreed-upon meeting with Chaya and he was very shy but clearly excited at the prospect of spending time with her and I feel if you cannot share his joy then you should -- "

"Gchkkkk -- sorry, comm is cutting out, Teyla -- grrrrck."

I hate women.

10 minutes later:

God damn Atlantis and her soundproofed walls. The water glass trick apparently does not work on cities built partially of Trinium. My life is so filled with trials.

1 hour later:

So several minutes after I'd started considering hacking into Atlantis' heretofore deadened monitoring system Sheppard strolled out of Space Hooker's room looking all fucked out and a little bit too pleased with himself and then he completely ignored my totally reasonable concerns for his and the city's safety. He actually yelled at me and told me to mind my own business.

Hello? Hello? Atlantis is my business! This mission is my business! Keeping you and your apparently inexhaustible cock away from space hookers is my business!

God the ungratefulness of that tribble-haired slut! See if I ever show him the Ancient Etch-a-Sketch -- he doesn't deserve to paint with his mind. He'd probably just draw a penis anyway.

2/17/2005

Sheppard is grounded after his little stunt with the Alien Hooker. I told Elizabeth had she only allowed me into Chaya's rooms to supervise, we could have avoided this entire debacle but she only looked at me strangely and tried to send me to Kate Heightmeyer for counseling.

"Rodney, clearly you have some unresolved issues with Major Sheppard," she said.

I glared. "You think? That man had alien tentacle sex with -- "

"Chaya had tentacles?" Elizabeth asked, alarmed and glancing out the window of her office to stare at a very bored, gate-restricted and puttering around Major who was basically flirting with all the gate techs in his own very sullen way. He's being held on Atlantis until Carson does a full panel of tests on him to check for Ascended STDs, which we didn't know about until that really embarrassing time Dr. Jackson picked up one of the times he died.

"Well, she could have had tentacles," I revised. "We don't really know."

She looked like she was trying extraordinarily hard not to laugh. "I'm fairly certain she didn't, Rodney," Elizabeth said. "Carson did scan her."

"Like that voodoo practitioner could find anything," I scoffed.

"I think tentacles would be hard to miss," Elizabeth said demurely. "What I mean, before you veer off onto yet another strange and very disturbing tangent, is that you're taking this much harder than anybody else in the city, and perhaps the reasons for that should be examined."

Spine went as straight as Chuck Norris. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She gave me a look that said you're gayer than Elton John.

How the hell does Elizabeth know about the Sheppard dilemma?

2/18/2005

Oh my God, what is Elizabeth isn't the only person who knows?

2/21/2005

WEIRD^7834234

Found a time-traveled version of Elizabeth Weir from a failed Atlantis expedition and heard John Sheppard say flux capacitor, which I found equal parts hateful and adorable, which means I'm in total shit and that I must give off gay rays like the love child of Elton John and Tom Cruise.

Old Elizabeth was brittle and strange and had snow white hair and smirked as us a whole bunch, she said she missed us and saved our asses without us ever knowing, and it was a little strange to sit by her bedside and watch her die -- I can't imagine what it was like for Elizabeth. We buried her at sea and Elizabeth was smiling as all the ashes curled under the waves. She's been sitting on one of the balconies all day, holding the pot John gave her for her birthday and looking at the water -- which had to be kind of morbid.

"You needn't worry about her, Dr. McKay," Teyla told me a little while ago.

"She just watched herself die!" I balked.

Teyla smiled enigmatically, like she always does. If she wasn't so smoking hot, I might be annoyed. "Yes," she agreed. "But with great dignity and grace and after saving the lives of people she cared about and helping to advance discovery."

"Well, if you look at it that way," I muttered.

"I do," Teyla answered. "And I believe Dr. Weir does, as well. Look at her, Rodney -- does she not look content to you?"

It's true, she does.

I'm still pissed of John let us drown and then had the audacity to DIE ANYWAY.

3/1/2005

NOT FUNNY. FOLLOWING NOTE WAS LEFT UNDER MY DOOR THIS MORNING:

Rodney:  
Do you want to go steady?  
Check yes or no:  
YES NO  
Love, John Sheppard. (Mrs. Dr. Rodney McKay.)

I HATE THAT SQUIRRELLY CHECK BASTARD.

Later:

I've spent the past six hours of the day trying to verify if this is actually John Sheppard's handwriting, for two very important reasons:

(1) If it is, there is the possibility that he was co-opted by the evil Czech which means he's either evil in his craven little soul, too, or easily entertained, or just MEAN.   
(2) Oh my God, what if he means it? He even wrote Mrs. DR. Rodney McKay.

(3) It is exactly a month until April Fools. This could be an early one? Sent by someone who clearly has a death wish?

Even later:

The worst part, of course, is that obviously I would check "yes." Not because I have any feelings for him other than unadulterated lust of course, but because that way I could legitimately keep alien priestess vaginas away from him, thereby removing another potential threat to Atlantis. Right.

…I wonder how hard it would be to build a handwriting analysis program.

Even even later:

Handwriting comparison program cobbled together from Microsoft Paint and illegally-ripped episodes of CSI: Las Vegas COMPLETE.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Rodney McKay's Diary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11293443) by [Twilight_Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilight_Angel/pseuds/Twilight_Angel)




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